Three Pieces of Writing

Hello sweet readers,

I felt bad leaving you with a post that didn't contain any a) writing or b) sewing.

So to make up for it, I've typed up a few stories that I've written over the past year. Mostly I've written these on buses or in breaks between classes (or in classes, sometimes, but not too often I promise!)

There are three pieces and I've included a little bit of background about each of them. Have a read and comment if you feel inclined. :)

Enjoy!

♥Nancy♬

Story 1: The Walk to the Bus

This one is intended to be a complete piece; I guess you could call it flash fiction. It was an exercise in imagery and description but I think it came out a bit on the Telling side rather than the Showing side. Also, it's a bit wall-of-text-ish, since there's not much dialogue, and I couldn't work out a good way to split it into paragraphs, sorry!

The world is full of smells this morning. As I turn away from my front door, I am subject to a gust of perfume from the fiery ragged blossoms that adorn the gum tree in my garden. The breeze that carries the scent is blessedly cool after the wretched night I just sweltered through. I trample straight past the ragged blossom and across the dewy grass to the footpath. Rising off shiny tendrils on the road is the bitter smell of tar; my nose wrinkles against it. I begin to walk, slowly at first, down the street towards the bus stop. My bus pass is clasped tightly in my right hand, the thin plastic edges indenting my skin. The next smell reaches my nose as I walk. This smell is a complex aroma with many notes. First, it is the clean scent of eucalyptus; it’s not a surprising smell since I’m just walking past a patch of bushland and there are little tetrahedral gum nuts being crushed under my shoes. The next smell, however, is less expected. It’s a damp, dusty scent that reminds me of red dirt, tin roofs and Easter camping trips. Rain. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I’m not even wearing a jacket, since last night was so muggy. My heart begins a pitter-patter crescendo and my shoulder muscles contract and don’t release. I don’t want to get wet. I begin to pump my legs so fast that my muscles burn. They’re not used to this kind of activity but I’m determined to stay dry. I hunch over more, which makes my bag seem heavier on my back. My heart starts to thud thud thud in my chest. The increased activity makes me take a deep breath. And there it is again, the taste of dust and rain on my tongue. The smells are fresh and clean and they would be welcome any other day: God knows we need the rain. But I have my textbooks in my bag and I curled my hair this morning. Getting wet will ruin everything. Luckily, the bus stop is within sight. It’s one of the older ones with a little bench under a shelter, the ones painted blue originally but redecorated since with years of teenage graffiti. Usually I avoid it because there are always broken brown beer bottles on the ground and it invariably smells like piss, but today I’m just looking forward to being safely undercover. I’m practically running at this point, the bus shelter is getting closer with every step. With every breath, my lungs are filled again with the warning smell of rain; I swear it’s getting stronger. A cold pin-prick hits my arm. As I hurry along, I look at my skin; yes, that’s a rain-drop. The grey footpath begins to show dark grey splatters. Another cold pin-prick hits my arm, my other arm, my cheek. I’m mere metres away from the bus shelter now. A rumbling reaches my ears and my heart skips a beat as I mistake it for a thunder clap - but no! It’s an old bus, grumbling its way down the road. I reach the bus stop, panting and wearing raindrops down my arms like a shawl. There’s no time to hide from the rain under the bus shelter. I fling my arm out to signal the bus; the water drops splash off my skin and into my eyes. The bus’s brakes scream even though there’s plenty of stopping distance. I bounce on the balls of my feet and grind my teeth while the lazy bus meanders to a stop. Finally, it shudders and halts; an orgasmic climax to the previous leg of its journey. I’m desperate for a respite from this incessant sprinkling. I can see the driver through the yellowing glass of the bus doors: he pulls the lever to open them. The doors twitch, making a creaky plastic sound as the decaying seals rub against each other. But they don’t open. I see the driver wiggle the lever back and forth. My teeth squeak a little as I grind them in anticipation. With a groan, the bus door slowly opens. And just before I step on to the bus, the sky stops pussyfooting around the issue and pours down an ocean of rain down on top of me. I step on to the bus and flash my bus pass at the driver.
“Bad luck with the rain there,” he says, with an apologetic shrug.
I harrumph and stalk my way down the bus. Water drips from my chin and my previously curled hair sticks to my cheek in straight lines. I smell like wet textbooks, wet hair and rain.

Story 2: Bathtime

This one was an attempt to write a story that ended somewhere very different from where it began. It's not really a twist ending, technically, but that's the sort of feeling I was going for. It's also a complete piece; woohoo for flash fiction!

I trip over the threshold as I dive into the cupboard. My knees burn as they slide against the carpet. I push myself back onto my feet and reach for the door. It’s a door made of wooden slats so it’s easy to get a good grip on it and pull the door closed. I am plunged into darkness. I sit down on the carpet. My chest is heaving as I pant; it was a long run to this hiding space. Goosebumps rise upon my bare skin; it is cold here in the cupboard and I long for the clothes that were so recently torn from my body. The carpet is scratchy on my bottom. I stuff my fist into my mouth to keep from giggling; the whole situation is utterly absurd. I hear footsteps coming closer to the cupboard.
“Where’s Katie?” sings out the male voice that hunts me.
His rhythm of speech is kind and soothing. I know it’s a trap; I shuffle back deeper into the cupboard. I’m sure of my safety here; he’ll never think to look in this cupboard; I’ll be fine.
“Where could she be?” says the voice.
He is toying with me, trying to scare me out of hiding. I won’t be tricked. I wiggle further backwards into the cupboard. I nestle in against a suitcase and a hat box. I chew my fist to keep from losing my nerve and calling out to my pursuer. I see his shadow as he stops outside the cupboard I am hiding in. No! Why did I hide here? I am so vulnerable: cold, naked, alone. I lose my nerve as his hand grasps the handle of the cupboard door and whimper. He flings the door open.
“Got you!” he said, his tone light but the meaning malicious.
I screech and press back against the suitcase. But he is too big and too strong. I lose my bearings as I’m hoisted out of the cupboard, into the air, and nestled into the awful man’s arms. I beat my fists against his chest, I struggle wildly against his grasp.
“No! No!” I scream at him.
The man takes my protests in good humour, carrying me away with ease.
“Come on Katie,” he says, “bath-time!”

Story 3: Koras Over the Cliff

This one is not a complete piece, but I don't really know what it could turn into. I think it would probably end up as a fantasy story of some kind. It's just an exciting opening that establishes some preliminary setting stuff, relationships and a conflict.

Koras gripped tighter to the rocky face of the cliff. The biting wind caught his cloak and dragged his body sideways; he dug his fingers into the rock and grimaced against the pain. He kicked out with his feet in the hopes of gaining some purchase against the rock but the pain made his eyes lose focus and his stomach somersault violently. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with his leg in this state.
“Koras!”
A voice floated down from the top of the cliff.
“Ziza!” he screamed back.
But Koras’s voice was carried away by the wind.
“Ziza!” he screamed again, at the top of his lungs.
For a moment, Koras thought that the wind had stolen his voice again. He slumped, hopeless, staring up at the top of the cliff. A pale face appeared over the edge, staring down at hi. It was Ziza. Koras had never been more pleased to see her.
“Koras, hold on!” she called.
“I am!” he yelled back.
But Ziza was already gone, and all Koras could see was the end of her long black plait flicking out over the cliff edge as she turned. He pulled up with his fingers and tried to take a deep breath. He was fatiguing. The exertion was bringing a sweat to his brow and the wind was chilling it.
“Hurry, Ziza,” he muttered to himself.
The wind caught him again, swinging his body sideways and then slamming him against eh rocks. His legged knocked the rocks and he grunted at the pain. His fingers began to loosen their grip on the rock.
“No,” he moaned, trying to dig his fingers deeper into the stone face of the cliff. But the crevasse he was grasping was made of rock that was crumbling slightly; it would not hold his weight much longer.
“Koras!” Ziza’s face appeared over the edge of the cliff again.
“Ziza!”
“Grab this rope!”
A thick rope tumbled down from the top of the cliff. Koras grunted as the rope hit him in the face.
“Grab it, Koras!”
“I’ll fall,” he gasped.
He was sweating heavily and freezing cold. His leg throbbed with pain. His arms and shoulders ached.
“You’ll fall anyway, Koras,” Ziza yelled back at him.
She was right, of course, and he simultaneously loved and hated her for it. He decided that his right hand had a tighter grasp on the rock. One hand, then the other, that was the way. The wind slammed his body against the rock once more and Koras made his move, striking out at the rope with his left hand. His balance against the rock was even more precarious. He breathed in, then out, and shifted his right hand to the rope as well.
“He’s got it!” yelled Ziza, “pull him up!”
Slowly, the rope was pulled and Koras moved up the cliff. His hands were red raw from the rocks and the rope but he kept an iron grip as he ascended. As he reached the top, he prepared to put his leg out to scramble up on to solid ground. He got his left leg on to the ground and pushed up as hard as he could, knowing that his right leg would be utterly useless. Strong arms grabbed at him as he threw himself up onto the cliff. They tried to steady him.
“You’re okay, I’ve got you,” said a deep voice.
The voice seemed to be attached to the arms. They smelled like dirt and male sweat and leather. Oh god. Ziza had brought a sports team to rescue him. A hard, muscled arm wrapped around his waist.
“Can you stand, mate?” asked the rescuer.
And then Koras tried standing on his own and all he could feel was the shock of pain in his right leg. The world went black for just a second. Koras opened his eyes to discover that he was lying on the damp grass, staring up at Ziza.
“Koras! Koras, wake up.”
“Ziza, hey,” he said, and looking into her deep black eyes almost made him forget the pain.
“Medic!” yelled a voice.
“He’s here,” Ziza called, and stood up to move away.
“No, wait,” said Koras, but he could barely even move to sit up, let alone chase after Ziza.
With great effort, Koras lifted himself up on his elbows so that he could look around. The first thing that he saw was his own leg. It sat at a strange angle and his trouser leg was soaked through with blood. The next thing he saw with Ziza, holding another woman in an intimate embrace. The woman - she was tall, with brown skin and nearly-white hair - opened her eyes and met his gaze over Ziza’s shoulder.
“Ziza,” Koras said, trying to reach out to her.
The women broke their embrace and Ziza turned back to him.
“The doctor’s coming, Koras. I’ll be right here, with Magra.”
“No,” Koras groaned.
But Ziza and Magra were backing away already. The medic dropped to the ground and Koras was forced to turn his attention toward the imminent medical care. He looked away from his beloved best friend and away from her bitch girlfriend, who’d crushed his leg and thrown him off a cliff.